Knock
by Miss Laine
Summary: Everyone knows, the man says, but Snape certainly didn't. Sometimes you learn things from the most interesting sources.
1. First Impression

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of it.

**A/N:** I've been mashing this idea around in my brain for about two years now, and I've got some half-dozen versions of this story on my computer. This is the one that finally made it into some sort of presentable form, though perhaps someday some of the others will make it onto as well. This isn't meant to be long—I'm just going to add bits and pieces as I figure them out—and it doesn't really have chapters. It's just a string of occurrences that led to something.

Have fun reading and let me know what you think.

**Title:** Knock

Chapter: First Impression

_L…L…L…L…L…L…L…L…L…L_

"So you've met the Potter boy."

Severus didn't turn at first, taking a moment to register the cool but interested voice. He watched the thin form of sixteen year-old Harry Potter disappear around the corner first, and then turned obsidian eyes on the man that had spoken. "Pardon?"

The man nodded in the direction of the teen that had just left the store. "Potter. Harry Potter, I think it is. I saw you speak to him a moment."

"So what if I did?" Severus asked, trying not to sound too irritable.

The man shrugged. "I've owned this shop twelve years now, and haven't seen more than three others talk to the boy." The shopkeeper looked around a bit, then spoke a little more quietly. "That boy's been in and out of this shop ever since I opened it."

"We only exchanged a few words," Severus pointed out.

"A sullen boy, isn't he?" the man commented. "I can't ever get more than a word or two out of him."

"So it would seem." Severus was beginning to wonder just where this conversation was headed.

"People around here don't like to talk about him, much," the man went on, obviously feeling more at ease now. Despite what the man said, Severus got the idea that people around Little Whinging really _did _like talking about Potter.

"Oh?" Severus said, trying to look a little less interested. He wanted to leave as soon as possible, but he was supposed to await the signal that Potter had arrived home again.

"Used to be such a cheery little lad, too," the man said with a nostalgic nod. "Used to come here to hide from his cousin, you know. Big lump of a boy that intimidates all the others." The man sighed and wiped off the counter in front of him before sitting down and leaning back in a chair. "Couldn't imagine how the poor boy could have been so chipper. Not with his parents getting themselves killed in that crash and all."

"Crash?" Severus echoed, jarred. _What crash?_

"According to Mrs. Dursley, the Potters got themselves killed in a crash…driving drunk or some such. A miracle that the boy survived that," the man said, and Severus had to do his best not to look enraged. He may not have liked the Potters…and that was a terrible understatement…but to say that they had gotten themselves killed in something so…Muggle…and…

"Potter has lived with the Dursleys since then?" Snape asked, though he knew the answer. He just wanted to spend the time between now and his signal as quickly as possible.

"I suppose," the man said. "Of course, there's been a couple of times…every now and then Potter used to disappear for a few weeks. Especially durin' the summer, I didn't see him for a month or so at a time. And then he started goin' to that St. Brutus's place when he turned eleven."

"What?"

Snape turned fully to face the man, actually surprised and certainly thrown off.

The man mistook Severus's surprise, though. "Oh, I know, hardly seems right—an eleven year old in a criminal center—but it's not all the boy's fault."

"How so?" Severus had to ask.

"That boy's had it rough," the man said, shaking his head. "It's not his fault he's turned out as he has."

Severus felt a tingling in his pocket. Potter was back home. He stood up, even as the man spoke again.

"Everyone knows that Dursley knocks his nephew around," he said.

Severus only hesitated a moment before sweeping from the shop and apparating a moment later.

_L…L…L…L…L…L…L…L_


	2. Second Glance

Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling owns Harry Potter.

A/N: Thank you for the great response! Here's the second section, and please, tell me what you think and what you'd like to see happen or think should happen next.

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Second Glance

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Ever since Severus's…enlightening…talk with the muggle grocer, he had caught himself watching Mr. Potter more often than usual. Certainly, he didn't go out of way to keep an eye on the teen, but, when he was forced to, he would catch himself thinking about Potter's home life and conjecturing on the possibilities. 'Knock' was a rather vague term, open to a variety of translations, he told himself.

Still, during his turns at 'guard duty,' he no longer spent so much time going over potions in his head or thinking up new and painful detentions for Gryffindors to serve once the school year began.

Instead, he tended to catch himself watching the boy as he worked outside, knelt over flowerbeds or reaching up to trim trees. At first, whenever he caught himself staring, he shook his head to clear it and went back to thinking of potions and surveying the surrounding area.

Gradually, though, he gave up trying to think about other things while on guard duty, and instead turned to the mystery at hand. He'd never seen anything in Potter's mind about his uncle hitting him. It just didn't…fit.

At least, that's what he told himself, he thought in a moment of sarcastic irony. He'd seen the brat's home life to some extent, and abuse was not much past what he had witnessed.

He'd seen multiple instances where Dudley Dursley had tormented his much smaller though not younger cousin, and never had he seen that any action had been taken against the boy.

In fact, he'd gotten the impression that Potter's relatives egged their son on, encouraging him to do what they could not.

Or perhaps they'd encouraged their son in order to have an excuse for any marks that _they _left on the boy. That possibility had not occurred to him until recently. He'd thought perhaps Potter was insolent or snobbish with his relatives, and they were happy to have someone that didn't stand for his arrogance. Or maybe it was some strange muggle form of humor. He hadn't known, hadn't cared, and hadn't thought much about it.

But now…now, he wondered. He did not like to be wrong about a situation, even if it was about someone he despised.

It just didn't make any sense, he told himself again. It just didn't mesh with what he knew of Potter's personality after five years, and it left him very unsure of the entire situation.

Of course, Potter showed no signs of physical abuse in any of the times that Severus observed him. The teen worked with a sheer determination that Severus had never seen applied to schoolwork. He weeded as if his life depended on it, planted new flowers with diligence and a great deal of attention to details, and did all of his other outdoor chores with the same painstaking care. Never once did Potter stop in his work during the day, except for perhaps ten minutes mid-morning in order to take a sip of water from the garden hose and wipe sweat from his face.

The boy was always back in the house at lunch, Severus assumed in order to do schoolwork and relax. He could not get within the house, obviously, so he did not have the chance to observe Potter's life after Mr. Dursley arrived home every evening.

Three weeks into the summer, he'd all but forgotten the grocer's comment, having chalked it up to another rumor about Potter that circulated about the small town of Little Whinging.

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That is, until late in July, perhaps a day or two before Potter's sixteenth birthday. Snape had, unluckily, drawn a late evening shift. It meant that he had been unable to really start any potions during the day, and it meant that he would have a late, late night. His replacement wasn't scheduled to arrive until one in the morning.

Irritated by the late hours and seeming waste of his time, he settled down into the brush that had apparently been reserved for 'Potter-watching' and pulled out some light reading material. He still kept his senses trained on the surroundings, just in case, but he very much doubted anything was going to happen.

At first, he didn't notice the shouts. He was busily flicking through a potions journal, perusing the topics idly while continually flicking his eyes over the surrounding area. He, unlike Fletcher, could never be called derelict in his duty.

But he was usually listening for footsteps or the swish of robes coming from somewhere on the property, somewhere outside of the home. So, the shatter of china from inside the Dursley residence took him by surprise. He was on his feet in an instant, hand on his wand.

The crash was followed almost immediately by muffled shouting, which he instantly realized had, in fact, been going on for some time. He had just managed to tune it out rather well.

The exact words were muffled well by the home's walls, but Snape caught a few. "Useless…freak…worthless…_murderer…_"

Severus had to assume that it was Mr. Dursley speaking in reference to Potter, though he could not be certain. That is, not until there was another shatter of china, a shout, and then the slamming of the back door.

He had just enough time to duck behind the brush better before Potter was suddenly and forcefully propelled through the now-open back door, followed rather quickly by his large uncle.

He watched Potter stumble over somewhat longer legs—thanks to a growth spurt the boy seemed to have finally gained some height. Somehow, Potter managed to keep his balance and then turn to face his uncle, fists clenched. His face, illuminated better by the porch light, was set in angry lines as he stared up at his uncle.

Obviously, Snape thought snidely, the teen had not grown enough.

Severus eyed the uncle critically. The man clearly had a rather large amount of weight on his nephew, along with several inches in height. "I'll not have your sullenness in my home, boy," the uncle snarled. The words were quieter—obviously, he didn't want to draw a crowd—but Severus could hear them quite clearly.

"I didn't ask to be put back here," Potter snapped back. "You're _loving _care is much too good for me," Potter spat angrily.

Severus was actually surprised at how fast the muggle man moved, and blinked just as Potter blinked, looking up from his new position on the ground. Severus hesitated to go forward, though, and instead watched as Potter stood up unsteadily, his glare returning. "You'll mind your mouth when speaking to me, boy!" Dursley snarled, left hand still raised.

Potter didn't back down. _Stupid, _Severus thought. _He's going to get himself hit again._

He was shocked at his thoughts, actually. It reminded him very clearly of his own teen years—he had backed down numerous times from his rather violent father in order to avoid blows.

He watched Potter take a breath, and for a moment felt sure the teen was going to back away, admit defeat.

But then Potter looked up again, eyes glinting in the back porch's light. When he spoke, his voice was bursting with anger and resentment held barely in check.

"I do the chores I'm assigned," Potter said, obviously trying to keep his voice level and indifferent. "I work close to twelve hours a day doing everything you demand I do, and you _know _that I don't shirk. I haven't mentioned it to the Order, and I won't. But that doesn't mean that—"

The teen's words were cut off as another meaty fist slammed into his face, this time knocking him onto his side. Severus watched, more unsure by the minute, as Potter took longer to get to his feet, only to be knocked down once more by a hefty right hook.

But Potter just got up again, obviously bracing for another blow. "This is ridiculous," Potter hissed vehemently. "I have to stay here, and I'm sorry if—"

A fist sent him crashing to the ground once more.

For all his Quidditch reflexes, Snape thought, the teen didn't even try to duck the blows. He took each standing solidly on his two feet, even if he couldn't stay upright afterward. He could see it—every time Dursley swung, Potter's muscles tensed.

Why? Why was the teen taking the blows when he could dodge them?

_Because it just makes them madder when you dodge, _a voice in his head told him. A voice that had helped him live through his own childhood.

Potter got to his feet again, slightly unsteady after so many blows to his head, and Snape expected to see Dursley beat Potter back to the ground once more.

But Dursley looked around suddenly, as if realizing that they were outside where anyone could see, and then grabbed the boy by the collar of his large, worn-out shirt and dragged him bodily back through the door.

"You're going to learn the meaning of _sorry_, boy!"

The words made it to his ears bare moments before the door slammed shut.

Snape was left standing there in the brush, a surprised expression on his face.

He quickly came to a stunning realization.

He had no idea what to do. None at all. Should he call another member of the Order to deal with this? Should he go straight to Dumbledore? Or should he just wait and catch Potter at the Order's headquarters, when he came in early August?

A nasty little voice in the back of his mind piped up. _Did he even care? _ This was Potter he was thinking about, the teen whose arrogance and sheer stupidity had irritated him constantly for years. If the boy had a problem, he should have told someone like Lupin or Dumbledore, who would give a damn.

_Of course, perhaps the boy's trying to hide this from everyone,_ he countered in his mind. He certainly hadn't wanted anyone to know his father was borderline abusive.

But this was Potter…

The teen did not come back out of the house anytime before Severus's shift ended, and in the end he did nothing. Kingsley appeared out of the shadows at ten to one, and after verifying each other's identities, Snape walked away from the house on Privet Drive.

He would corner Potter at school, he told himself curtly, before disapparating away.

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A/N: Ah, Snape, so blinded by his hate of Harry. Just give him time, he'll come around. Maybe.


	3. Three Strikes

A/N: THANK YOU to all the wonderful people who reviewed! Your support has made me continue this much longer than I had planned!

A few points of clarification/explanation:

In response to those of you who don't really like the whole 'Dursleys abuse Potter' plotline, I, too, doubt very much that Rowling wanted people to think that Harry was horribly abused by his relatives all throughout his childhood. I do think, though, that it's very possible that, by the time Harry was a teen and no longer just some little kid, Vernon would be capable of hitting Harry. So hey, thanks for stretching a little and reading.

Also, as to Snape's indecisiveness: Harry's about sixteen here, and not some little kid any more. All Snape has seen is that Harry's uncle has hit him now, not that it every truly occurred before, and, besides, Harry's not exactly his favorite person. While I don't think Snape's an evil jerk, he doesn't really have the best set of morals (Take life as death eater as example).

Anyway, that's kind of my wacky logic behind this, so thanks, keep reading, and I'll keep writing and reading your wonderful reviews!

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Three Strikes

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He should have talked to Potter sooner, Severus thought to himself. He pushed his food absently around his half-empty plate, mind on the teen just walking into the great hall, a flock of eager 'friends' all hovering about him.

Potter, was, of course, the center of Gryffindor's attention, as well as of a great portion of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. He could even see a few Slytherins turn to eye the young man entering the hall.

Pathetic, he thought curtly, to idolize someone who had done so little.

He forced himself to study Potter objectively, though, his practiced eye quickly noting the boy's appearance and manner.

It was easy to see, though, that the teen did not look well at all. He certainly was working hard to hide it, but no one had every credited the overly-emotional boy with being a good liar..

It wasn't as if his act was fooling his friends at all, nor anyone else for that matter. Severus could see the concerned and somewhat fearful glances the boy was receiving, and he had to admit that the teen's paleness and overall _unhealthy _appearance did not sit well with him, despite his dislike of the young man.

Never before had the boy come to Hogwarts looking so ill…usually, he left Hogwarts in the spring in much worse health than when he returned. Admittedly, he thought to himself, Potter was always thin and pale, but this…this was alarming.

Potter's two friends were hovering around him like worried mothers, seeming to watch his every move for signs of illness or pain. They expected him to admit to some pain or injury, or at least show it in his expression.

Instead, Potter looked defiant.

Defiant but dying.

He looked like a starved, cornered animal, backed against the wall with nowhere to run. At times, Potter would snap at his little gaggle of friends, then apologize profusely to those that pressed him too much. More often, and more alarming, he would retreat further into himself, ignoring the glances and whispers completely.

It was as if Potter had given up. Severus wasn't sure if anyone else saw it quite the way he did, but he _did _have the advantage of knowing about the abuse. He felt a moment's twist of guilt for not having reported what he'd learned, but shoved it roughly away.

Potter was sixteen. He was old enough to make decisions in his own life, and if he wanted to keep his little secret, then Severus wasn't going to force him to divulge it. That _would _be the only reason to tell anyone, he thought cruelly. To bother Potter.

But Potter looked…bothered...enough on his own. The teen took a seat at the Gryffindor table after glaring at his friends angrily, and Snape turned his attention to the boy's plate, as he carefully dished only a few things onto his plate and ate them slowly.

Apparently, for the first time he could recall, the teen's appetite upon returning to Hogwarts was non-existent.

"Potter looks…unwell…" Minerva said softly, so that only he could hear. So she had caught him staring, he realized.

He gave her a curt nod. "Do you have plans to deal with it?" he asked. Minerva actually looked at him, a dubious expression on her face.

"Potter does not like to be thought of as…delicate…" she told him. "He was quite angry when it was suggested at the start of his third year." She shook her head, looking down at her plate a moment. "I will, of course, suggest something to Poppy. Albus has no doubt noticed Mr. Potter's state by now."

Severus gazed at her a moment, searching for any indication that she knew what had happened over the summer.

He found none.

"Does Albus know _why _Potter is so…ill?" he asked.

Minerva shook her had slowly. "He…is afraid to ask, I think," she admitted. "Potter has not been willing to speak with him at all this summer. Not since the Department of Mysteries."

Severus allowed his lip to curl into a sneer. So the boy did not trust the headmaster any longer…or was it something else, something much more complicated and convoluted? Surely Potter couldn't distrust his friends, too?

But they didn't seem to know about the abuse, either. No one did. So perhaps Potter just didn't want anyone to know, and Albus had mistaken it for distrust.

He kept half an eye on Potter through the rest of the meal, watching the boy pick at his food and answer his friends with short and uninterested responses. Potter was…listless. It was such a change from the energetic (_arrogant_) and animated (_impulsive) _teen he'd had to deal with for five years that it…alarmed…him.

He was alarmed on Potter's behalf, he realized suddenly.

It was time to visit that grocer again, he decided instantly and firmly.

_L…L…L…L…L_

A/N: Sorry, kinda short, yeah, but it was an ending point so there it is! Next section is under revision and should be up in a few days, maybe a little bit more. Thanks for hanging with me on this!


	4. Four Words

A/N: The responses have been so wonderful, but I've somehow sensed (translation: people have said in reviews) that people still have some concerns about Snape's actions, or lack thereof, as well as Harry's attitude. I hate to give stuff away, but don't think the Dursleys are out of the picture yet. They'll get their comeuppance. Bwah ha ha.

Anyway, in other news, your responses have galvanized me to continue to post as often as is possible while still keeping the quality up. Please keep responding!

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Four Words

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It was early that weekend, when Severus finally had the chance to slip away from the school for a bit and return to that little corner shop. He went in quietly, the light tinkle of the bell on the door the only noise produced by his entrance.

The shop was not empty; several patrons milled about as could be expected on a Saturday morning in a town like this. Mostly, he noted, they were women, and, mostly, they all looked up sharply at his appearance.

Legillimency wasn't even necessary to know what they were all thinking—a stranger had just entered _their _store, and possibly their community.

He sneered slightly, just so they'd know he wasn't interested in talking to them, and headed straight for the counter in the middle of the store. The middle-aged owner had his back to Severus, placing boxes on a shelf, but he turned when he heard Severus clear his throat quietly.

The shopkeeper obviously recognized him, giving him a careful look. "Haven't seen the boy since he left for that center," the man told him instantly.

Severus nodded and folded his arms tensely, eager to be done with this errand. "Potter is not missing this time," he stated flatly.

"He was missing?" the man said, confused. Snape realized that the man hadn't known that Potter wasn't where he was supposed to be that day in the summer, and quickly worked out an explanation for the fact.

"Potter is on house arrest, if you will, when he is home during the summer," Snape explained. "We merely wish to keep track of the boy."

"We?"

This man was somewhat smarter than Snape gave him credit for, being a muggle and all. "His professors—I, for one, am a professor where Mr. Potter attends."

The man looked guardedly interested. "Really now? How is the lad?"

Severus gave an unwilling half-smile. "He is…as well as can be expected. He had a rather rough time last year."

"He said as much," the man agreed.

"He spoke to you?" Severus pressed. The man nodded.

"Couple of days before he left, he came in with an older man and they bought sandwiches. Sickly looking fellow…Potter said it was his aunt's brother," the man supplied.

Lupin, Severus realized. Who was supposed to be nowhere near Potter, since he could be easily tracked by any competent Death Eater. Who had been ordered to spy upon the Malfoy residence, not visit a teenager in Little Whinging.

The werewolf seemed to have lost all sense of caution with the death of Black, he thought in irritation. That was another that had not taken that mutt's death well.

"Did he say much else?" he asked, returning to the topic at hand. The man shrugged.

"Not much. The two spoke for some time and left. Seemed kinda fatherly, to me. Kept giving the kid these worried once-overs."

"Did he—did Potter have any marks on him?" Severus asked awkwardly, unsure how to word his question.

The man gave him his full attention. "So someone's finally going to do something about it?" the grocer asked. "He's got some awful bruises on his arms, last I saw, but the black eye's faded a lot. Things got pretty bad this summer."

"And you did nothing?" Snape asked, amazed. "How bad?" he added.

The grocer frowned, but more to himself than to Snape. "The boy ain't willing to admit to anything," the man admitted. "Says his cousin does it all or some such. Falling down the stairs is a popular response of his…he must've been extra-clumsy this summer, though…"

"_How. Bad. Was. It?_" Snape asked again, demanding an answer.

The grocer sighed, thinking back. "Bad."

Snape opened his mouth to speak again, but the man had turned, pulling something out from behind the counter at his side. Snape caught glimpse of what looked to be a muggle photograph, and waited impatiently for the man to pick it up, holding it silently a moment before moving forward again.

"I took this when he was sleeping it off, when I thought maybe he'd want someone to do something about it," the grocer explained. "There's a cot out back for the late night clerk, and Potter's taken quite a few naps on it this summer."

Snape had a terrible time keeping from snatching the photograph from the man's hand, but the grocer was holding it tightly. "Now, Potter doesn't know I've ever taken a photo," the man warned, eyeing him. "He wouldn't react well, I'm supposing."

"I won't show him," Snape assured the man, though he certainly wasn't telling the truth. "But I may need to borrow it…in order to press charges…"

The man hesitated, then held out the photograph.

It was Potter, Snape realized quickly, and the boy was sleeping on his side, facing the camera. It was clearly from this summer, the bruises on the thin face standing out against pale, sickly skin. He tucked the photograph into a pocket of his coat, then returned his attention to the grocer.

"Have other incidences like this occurred, in past summers?" he demanded.

The grocer thought a long moment. "When the boy was about…oh, eight, I'd say, he had a nasty black eye for about a week," he recalled. "First mark I ever saw on the boy that I didn't see his cousin create."

"You think the uncle--?" Snape pressed.

The man shrugged. "It was just…odd…I guess. Potter looked nervous, and his uncle looked almost scared of him, keeping away from him and shooting him these nervous glances every few moments, like he was a bomb about to go off."

Snape filed that away for now, determined to find out just what had happened, and nodded once. "Thank you for the information," he said curtly. "It's just too bad you were incapable of any actions on your own."

"Hey, now," the man said, realizing he'd just been insulted. "It was never really that bad, not until—"

But Snape had had enough. He flicked out his wand. "Obliviate."

_L…L…L…L…L…L…L…L _

A/N: I know, not too clear on what the four words were, but it was back when Snape asked "How. Bad. Was. It?" That's kind of the theme of this chapter.

Anyway, get ready for a bunch of Snape-Harry angst, and for those of you that had wondered, no, this isn't slash. Snape and Harry will eventually, perhaps, perhaps not, have a student-teacher relationship. (That was a hint that this may or may not turn out all sunny in the end. Cuz, you know, not everything has a happy ending, or even the correct ending.)


	5. Five Stages

A/N: Here we go again! Same routine – I write, you read, you review, I write again!

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Five Stages

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Someone was in the bathroom, Snape thought in irritation, making a mess. The sounds of someone throwing up forcefully were echoing through the little used and rather isolated stone bathroom, and Snape hesitated, torn between ignoring it all and having the chance to deduct points from some unsuspecting student.

Of course, it would just have to be the one he passed on his way to his own private chambers that was causing the problems. He'd been looking forward to getting from his classroom to his rooms and sleeping. The Potter problem had been bothering him incessantly the past few days, and his own indecision on the matter had made him irritable.

And now this. Some little used, rather dingy bathroom with a student out after curfew residing within it. Probably some seventh year who had smuggled in alcohol, he knew, but it was a good chance to take away some house points. Using that thought as consolation for the delay in returning to his quarters, he slipped up to the bathroom silently.

He stopped into the doorway of the bathroom and listened to the painful coughing of whomever had just been sick. They were breathing heavily but steadily, sounding as if they were trying very hard not to sick up again.

"Lumos," he said aloud, lighting up the dim room and alerting the other to his presence.

The sounds stopped immediately, as if the other had frozen.

"Ten points from whatever house you belong to," he said aloud. "Curfew has long since passed."

There was a shuffling sound—whoever it was seemed to be getting to their feet—and then a stall door opened. He aimed his wand at the dark figure, and wasn't altogether surprised to see Potter, looking as if he were half-dead.

"What is going on, Potter?" he demanded, suddenly recalling the photograph lying in his desk's top right drawer. "You are far from Gryffindor."

"I—nightmare," Potter admitted, glasses glinting in the spelled light as he looked away. Apparently he was incapable of coming up with a plausible lie. "I had to get away."

"This far?" he pressed.

"This far."

Potter's voice was quiet, weary, as if he was much too tired to fight with his most hated professor.

"Detention. Tomorrow…rather, today…" Snape said, noting that it was well past midnight. "Seven, in the Potions classroom."

He was half hoping that Potter would argue, but the boy didn't. He just nodded, breathed out heavily, and almost staggered out of the bathroom and away. Snape watched the teen go, an odd feeling in his stomach as he noted the bent posture, the slumped shoulders, the weary tread…

It wasn't worry.

It wasn't.

L…L…L…L…L…L…L…L…L…L

Potter looked almost normal when he came into the classroom the next evening, looking tired and angry. He gave the teen only a cursory glance and waited for Potter to speak.

He didn't have to wait too long.

"Why am I here?" Potter asked.

He looked up, gesturing for the teen to sit. "What was your nightmare about, Potter?" he asked.

The teen opened his mouth, shut it, and opened it again, giving the impression of a fish. Typical, Snape thought, waiting for Potter to find his voice.

"None of your business, _sir._"

So the boy was going to deny everything, Snape realized. He didn't hesitate, pulling the photograph from its drawer. He threw it out on the desk, so Potter could see it.

"I know what happened this summer…what everyone in Little Whinging _loves _to talk about," he said.

When he looked up, Potter was already on his feet, bolting out the door. Snape blinked, surprised as the reaction. The boy was usually one to stay and fight. He'd expected Potter to be angry, once there was undeniable proof…but not this.

Potter had simply fled without a word.

Snape sighed, forcing himself to calmly think out the situation, and finally had to admit that he would have to seek the boy out and force him to talk. There was nothing else to be done.

He swept out of the classroom, knowing full well that Potter was probably halfway to Gryffindor by then, and used all of his knowledge of the castle's shortcuts to easily get ahead of the boy.

He barely suppressed a smile as he saw Potter's shocked expression. Of course, he had to admit, it _was _probably somewhat of a surprise to see the person you'd just fled not more than five minutes before leaning calmly against the door of your destination.

"You're not getting away so quickly," he said aloud. Potter glared at him.

"Get away from me, Snape," Potter growled at him. "Nothing happened," he added stoutly, still clinging to the hope that somehow he could convince Snape that it was true.

"Five points," he said. "I spoke with the grocer," he added. Potter paled considerably, trembling from head to foot and backing up a step.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Potter finally managed. "Just drop it."

"I saw it with my own eyes, Potter!" Snape spat angrily. "You know perfectly well what I'm talking about!"

"You have no idea!" Potter shouted, looking as if were about to bolt once more.

Snape raised his wand, and Potter stopped. Not so dim after all, Snape decided. He knew that Snape wasn't done with him yet. "I think I might have a fairly well constructed idea of just what has been going on, and I'm not going to let it drop!"

He watched as Potter's face reddened slightly, jaw clenched tightly, and wondered if the boy was about to attempt running again. "Stay out of it, _Professor_ Snape," Potter finally growled. "It isn't your business, and I sure as hell won't—"

"Five points more, and it certainly is _my _business when a student of this school is being abus—"

"STOP IT!" Potter shouted. Snape felt a flutter of something, and realized very suddenly that he didn't want to get this young man any angrier. Dumbledore was right, he had to concede instantly. Potter could, someday, be a _very _powerful wizard.

Well, if he didn't get himself killed.

"I saw it myself, Potter," he said instead, keeping his voice level. "This summer…you were arguing with your muggle uncle on the back porch—"

"I'm sixteen, it's _my _business if I want to say something. It's not—" Potter snapped. Snape frowned and cut in.

"Don't even try to deny it again," he warned. "The truth of the matter is very clear!"

"I deserved it…"

The words startled Snape more than anything he'd heard or seen since that summer day. He looked to Potter sharply, wondering if this were some game, but Potter was looking away, at the wall, as if no one else were there. His face was red, as if he hadn't meant to say those three words, but he wasn't acknowledging them now.

The voice had been so thin, so weak and aimless…so hopeless…

"We're going back to my office," Snape said. Potter didn't struggle when he grabbed the boy's arm as he swept by, almost dragging the teen with him back down to the dungeons.

L…L…L…L…L…L…L…L…L

If he'd had any hope that the boy would suddenly open up to him, it was quickly dispelled. Potter sat on the chair, arms folded and eyes focused on his knees. Severus regarded the teen at length, trying to be impartial and ignore the image of James Potter that Harry Potter always brought to mind.

The boy was thin, pale…his hands shook ever so slightly, and he was breathing at a somewhat elevated rate—from fear or exhaustion, he couldn't decide. Probably some of both.

"The grocer felt you would react this way," he finally said, voice cutting the silence off sharply.

Potter looked up a moment, glaring. "He had no right!"

"He had no right to stay silent, certainly," Snape said. "It seems the entire community of Little Whinging would rather talk about you than help you escape an abusive household."

Potter flinched at the word 'abusive,' but otherwise didn't react to the words. Apparently, the fight had left him for the time being.

"Of course, _you _never told anyone, either, so it's hardly fair to blame them," he went on calmly.

"Exactly," Potter said, catching onto his words. "It's my own business," Potter said, voice flat. "I'm sixteen—I can make my own decisions in my life."

"What about when you were eight, or ten?" Snape pressed. "How long has this been going on?"

Potter didn't say anything for several minutes, his face betraying the internal battle he was fighting.

"It wasn't like…this…when I was younger…and anyway, it wasn't bad. It was never bad," he finally settled on, looking away. "It isn't bad now. I can take care of myself."

"No doubt."

The boy couldn't possibly miss the sarcasm in his words, and he stared levelly at the angry green eyes that glared at him. "I'm here, aren't I?" the boy demanded.

Snape shrugged, picking up the photograph once more. "I suppose," he admitted. "Of course, you have to go back there next summer…perhaps the summer after as well…and I, as your professor, and, as a human being, cannot just let this pass silently."

"Why not?" Potter asked sharply. "You have for everything else, haven't you?"

Snape eyed the boy, trying to figure out how best to break down his façade. "Did he ever hit you with a belt, or does he always just use his hands?" he asked coldly, bluntly.

Potter glared. "Stop it, Snape. It isn't your business."

"Then I will take you to Albus, and you can explain to him what I saw," Snape said. "That is your only other choice."

"Next week I'll be the laughing stock of the school," Potter said, eyes watching him levelly. "Nobody was ever supposed to know."

"You must think me a fool, then," Snape stated. "I do not share what is said in confidence."

"That was almost reassuring," Potter said with a smirk, looking away a moment.

"Hm," Snape said quietly.

Potter turned back, breathing out slowly. "Fine," he said, giving in. "Look, if I talk to Lupin, will you let it go?" he asked. "I promise—I'll firecall him tomorrow, and we'll meet and talk—"

"You really don't expect me to believe that, do you?" Snape cut in. "A week from now, if I talk to the werewolf, I _know _that he won't have been told."

"I will!" Potter objected. "Just let me out of here, and I swear, I'll talk to him about it. He can take me in next summer, and—"

"No," Snape said. "That man is barely capable of running his own life, currently. I doubt very much he has the resources, emotionally or economically, to care for a teenager."

Potter looked angry a moment, but it faded quickly. "I'm not talking to you," he said stubbornly. "You may think you have me all figured out just because you saw some things and heard some things you shouldn't have, but you don't!"

"Potter—" he warned. "You are not leaving here tonight until you agree to speak with me—"

"Tomorrow night, then," Potter said quickly. "I'll come back tomorrow night, and I'll tell you whatever you want to hear."

The lie was so obvious in his voice that Snape wanted to shout at the teen, but, amazingly, he restrained himself.

"I can drag you from Gryffindor if you do not arrive on your own," he warned.

Potter looked beaten, now, but Snape knew it wouldn't last. "No doubt," the teen muttered. He stood, and before Snape could think of a way to stop him was out the door.

He had a pretty good idea that Potter had no intentions of returning the following evening.

And Snape wasn't even sure he should press the matter. He'd gotten the teen to admit the abuse had happened, and that he needed to talk to someone about it.

But he wasn't a psychologist. Not even close. He had no idea how to help the teen, and, frankly, he wasn't sure he could.

Potter would have to come to him.

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A/N: Ok, well Harry only got through three stages completely, but, hey, there's still time. I actually didn't follow the five stages of grief thingy when I was writing this, but when I reread it, trying to come up with a title, I suddenly realized that I'd already had Harry going through it anyway. So, I tweaked it a little to make it a little more clear cut and there you have it.

A little bit longer this time—enjoy it, because the next probably won't be.


	6. Six Minutes

A/N: Sorry it took so long. Apparently, school has started, and I'm already behind! So don't expect fast updates for a while, since I no longer have anything written ahead of where I post. Thanks for all of the lovely reviews, though!

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Six Minutes

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"Five times," Potter said softly, looking away and sounding mortified that he had spoken at all. A quick glance at his most superficial memories revealed that he was thinking about the summer, and the blows on the back porch of his muggle relative's home.

Severus nodded slowly, eyes unfathomable.

He had been surprised, though perhaps he shouldn't have been, when Potter had shown up at his classroom, at the appropriate time even. Apparently the teen fully believed that he would spread his little secret if he didn't comply with his terms.

If the stupid boy had thought about it clearly, he would have realized that there was no way he could send that particular secret around—not with his status as a double-crossing spy—since it would raise too many questions about why he knew so much about Potter without being able to bring him directly to the Dark Lord.

Of course, he'd never gifted Potter with much intelligence anyway, so even though Potter had shocked him by even showing up, he wasn't really surprised at the reasons.

Currently, the teen was watching him warily, eyes guarded. Apparently, he had let the silence linger too long. "You keep count?" he finally asked.

"Not for the little stuff," he admitted. "Just the...more memorable occasions, I guess."

"Such as this summer?" he pressed. Potter sighed.

"Yeah," he agreed. "He doesn't usually hit me more than once, since he's afraid you lot will come running one of these days."

There was a very telling pause, and Snape could almost hear the words the boy didn't say.

_Except you never have, and you never will._

It was clear that the Order had let the teen down for many years, but again…the boy had said nothing!

"The other four times—were they as severe?" he asked.

"I dunno," Potter muttered. "The first time wasn't bad—but I was younger, and I didn't expect it, I guess. So I counted it as number one."

"What happened?"

Potter glared a moment, but sighed, clearly thinking that if he didn't give in, then Snape would run to Dumbledore. "I was nine," he said. "I tracked mud in the house after weeding the flowerbeds, and when Vernon yelled at me about it, I told him to bugger off…I heard some older kid at school say it when they were mad…and the next thing I knew, he'd gone red in the face and backhanded me off the stairs."

"And that was it?"

Potter reddened, and Snape gleaned from his thoughts that the teen thought he was making the incident out to be more important than it really was.

"Well, and then I spent three weeks in the cupboard," Potter muttered. "But Petunia shouted at him, sounding all horrified. I thought she was shocked that he'd hit me…but I figured it out, later. She was afraid someone would come checking up on me."

"But they didn't," Snape supplied. The teen nodded once, firmly.

"It kept the Dursleys on edge almost a year, and I had no idea why at the time. I thought maybe they were afraid someone had noticed the big bruise on my face…but my teachers all just thought Dudley and I had been fighting again," Potter explained.

"And you never mentioned this to the headmaster?" Snape asked.

The teen looked a mixture of embarrassed and angry. "Half the time he treats me like a stranger, and the other half like I'm his grandson," Potter said. "I don't know what I can or can't tell him."

"So…you just let the abuse continue?" Snape pressed, knowing he would antagonize the boy further. "Just kept going back, pretending everything was fine…"

"I _asked _if I could stay at Hogwarts during the summer," Potter broke in. "But I was told no, and I knew arguing would be pointless."

"Did you explain the situation at all?"

"Well, no…I thought if I said anything after Dumbledore said no, he'd think I was making it up."

Potter looked positively sullen now, eyes on the floor at his feet and arms crossed on his chest. His shoulders were drawn up tightly, though he kept his back straight and stiff. His unease with the whole situation was obvious, as was his unwillingness to go into more detail than necessary to keep Snape from prying for more.

Snape hesitated a moment, letting silence fall once more, as he contemplated what to do with the boy. Perhaps there was nothing he _could _do. He wasn't sure. Having never had children of his own, coupled with his unwillingness to delve into the personal lives of any Hogwarts students, left him with little experience with teenage troubles.

Of course, he'd expected more stereotypical shouting and melodrama from Potter, certainly, leaving him uncertain how to deal with a teen that, while not venting his emotions, was clearly feeling them.

"What were your plans for this summer?" Snape abruptly asked. "Going back to them?"

Potter glanced up, shrugged slightly. "Were?" he echoed. "I _will _be going back to the Dursleys—blood protection and all that." Potter unfolded one arm long enough to wave a hand as he spoke.

"You most certainly won't," Snape stated evenly, keeping emotion and interest out of his voice. "You can't possibly believe a student at this school would be knowingly placed back into a hostile environment."

"Hostile? I figure Voldemort's hostile," Potter snorted. "What he's planning to do to me when he next gets a hold of me is _hostile_," he emphasized, laughing hollowly. "The Dursleys—merely annoying."

"_When_ he next gets his hands on you?" Snape echoed.

The boy sighed, as he tended to do, and cracked his neck before speaking again. "Well, it's not like he hasn't had trouble getting to me before," he pointed out. "I've been lucky to make it this long…between the blood protection with the Dursleys and the safety of Hogwarts, about ninety-nine percent of the time I figure I'm safe…it's that one percent that scares me."

The idea that the boy had spent any measure of time contemplating his relative safety, and what would probably happen if he were ambushed and taken to Voldemort, was surprising to Snape. He'd assumed, based on Potter's usual actions and words, that he spent most of his time absorbed in the rivalry with Slytherin, hating school work, flying, and everything else that normally occupied a Hogwart's student. He hadn't even been sure if Potter fully understood the serious nature of the situation.

He hadn't been there that night when Potter had been taken and Voldemort brought back to life…he'd had to beg his way back into Voldemort's good graces later that night, after Potter had come back…and he didn't have much direct evidence of what had transpired that evening. All of the other Death Eaters had been tight-lipped about it.

Voldemort hadn't spoken of it, either, and Snape got the feeling that he preferred it that way. So he wasn't reminded of the fact that a fourteen year old escaped him in an even duel.

Potter certainly hadn't won—not by any means—but he'd come out of it alive, which was more than most of Voldemort's targets could claim. Snape had been witness to Potter's return, clutching that damned cup…and the dead Diggory boy.

For a moment, then, he'd felt a slight pity for the boy…not for the horrors he'd faced, but for the abrupt and painful loss of any remaining hopes he'd had of making it to adulthood unscathed.

As much as he hated Potter—and he still had, _did_—he remembered clearly in his own youth, when he'd first come to Hogwarts and realized he wouldn't leave the school for a promising career or a wonderful life. Somehow, he'd known, even as a third year, that he wouldn't be like the majority—getting married and getting jobs and having babies.

And when he'd seen Potter reappear, clutching a dead teenager and covered in blood, he'd realized instantly that the promising future most worked for had just been stripped away. As much as Albus had wanted the boy to enjoy his years at Hogwarts, it wasn't to be.

Potter had a job to do.

In the silence that formed, they regarded each other.

"You can't help me," Potter finally stated, then stood. He left, and Snape didn't object.

He looked at the clock on the wall, though.

Only six minutes had passed.

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The problem, as he now saw it, was not that Potter didn't want a better situation or didn't see what was wrong. It was that he didn't see a need to change it. There were more pressing matters to deal with, as far as he was concerned.

Getting knocked around every now and then wasn't too big of a price to pay for protection from a wizard that would love nothing more than to skin him alive.

Literally.

And, as usual, everything ended up feeding back to Voldemort, back to the fact that the boy happened to have some stupid scar upon his forehead, forcing him to be the one that would supposedly destroy Voldemort or some such.

Despite the fact that he'd heard a portion of the prophecy himself, he still found it hard to believe that it was a solid fact—that because it had been made, it would happen. He much preferred to believe that witches and wizards tended to make decisions based upon what they had been told, making the prophecy truth. Potter had been told that he had been marked as the one to defeat Voldemort, and, without much fuss, had accepted it as truth.

If he'd never been told, he would probably have never set himself down this path. Potter just seemed to accept blindly that he was destined to fight the Dark Lord, no matter the cost to himself.

Something _had _to be done. Something that would take more than six minutes.

He contemplated the situation only a few moments more—it was time to come up with something extreme, something that would get the boy's attention.

And the more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that he would need to let go of some his prejudices, and, perish the thought, _trust _Potter's discretion.

It was time to bring out his pensieve.

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A/N: Sorry on the wait. MASSIVE writer's block mixed with MASSIVE amounts of schoolwork, etc, etc, and so forth. This isn't a great chapter…kind of filler, almost. I wanted to just chuck the whole thing, but then some of y'all might think I moved too fast, didn't provide enough insight, etc. So here it is, and it's probably not 100 integral to the rest of the story.

Thanks for hanging in there!


	7. Seven Years

A/N: Here we go again. Some people commented about what they thought was going to happen next, and I'm happy to say that they are only partly right (yay, I'm not too predictable!) Hope you enjoy, and tell me what ya think!

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Chapter 7: Seven Years

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"Detention, Potter," he snapped sharply, the instant he caught the teen talking to his friends during the lecture. "Eight tonight," he added, then continued on with his talk about asphodel's uses in hallucinogenic potions.

He watched Potter frown, eyes darkening, but the teen didn't object verbally to the order. A moment later, he had slumped back in his seat, arms folded on his chest and expression closed.

It was amazing how reticent Potter had become of late, unwilling to answer back even when Snape baited him purposefully, looking for a reaction. He knew part of it was because the stupid boy lived in fear that he would divulge his secrets to the highest bidder, so to speak, and it was amusing, almost, to watch that little glint of fear in Potter's eyes.

The other reason that Potter did not challenge him was what kept him from feeling any true amusement for the situation.

Potter did not respond to his barbs any more because he clearly didn't care. It was obvious that the teen didn't see that there was any reason to respond, nor any point in doing so. He had become fatalistic and indifferent about his own life.

And Snape recognized that feeling, having felt it for so many years in his own life. Not in school—no, then he had been driven by his need for revenge against James Potter and his little gang. It was later, after he came to Dumbledore, begging for his life, that he realized that he no longer cared what happened to himself. It wasn't that he wanted to die—in fact, he wanted to live very much.

But only to serve a purpose, to fulfill his function as a spy. He no longer entertained his own ambitions or dreams for the future, his entire being coming to focus on his work only.

His situation, he felt, was different than Potter's, though. He had chosen wrongly, had chosen to become Dark, and he was now paying the price for his weakness. Potter, on the other hand, was still a teen, still in school, and had not, to his knowledge, murdered anyone or anything in his few short years.

Certainly, Potter was foolish, impulsive, stubborn, and arrogant, but he was no murderer. He had nothing to atone for, as Snape did. Instead, his indifference was a result of something deeper, something Snape knew he didn't fully understand.

He knew Potter felt guilty about his godfather's death, as much as the man had deserved it. He knew Potter _still _felt guilty about Diggory, his parents, and everyone else who had ever been injured or killed as a result of his actions or even just his very presence. It was arrogant of the boy to think he mattered that much, but, again, he had been taught ever since joining the wizarding world that he was meant to do great things.

Leaving him with an over-inflated sense of Gryffindor duty as well as his misplaced guilt.

He had the feeling that this contributed in part to the fact that he had practically given up, but he knew the full answer lay deeper.

Potter was tired, emotionally and physically, and even as he watched, continuing to speak about asphodel, the teen's eyes drooped shut of their own accord, and though his friends saw, they did not wake him.

He ignored the gross lack of respect, though, and continued to speak.

0

"_Impedimentia!" he said, pointing his wand at Snape, who was knocked off his feet, halfway through a dive towards his own fallen wand._

_Students all around had gathered to watch. Some of them had gotten to their feet and were edging nearer to watch. Some looked apprehensive, others entertained._

_Snape lay panting on the ground._

Snape kept his eyes on Potter throughout the entire memory, feeling the same burning rage he had felt the previous year, when he had caught Potter in that very same memory. He could see now that Potter looked anything but amused, his eyes empty and his shoulders slumped.

"_Leave him alone," Lily repeated. She was looking at James with every sign of great dislike. "What's he done to you?"_

"_Well," said James, appearing to deliberate the point, "it's more the fact that he exists, if you know what I mean…"_

A quick use of Legillimency told him that foremost in Potter's mind was an overpowering shame for what he was witnessing, though it certainly couldn't have been his fault.

"_I don't need any help from filthy little Mudbloods like her!"_

_Lily blinked. "Fine," she said coolly._

He stayed a moment in Potter's mind, knowing the boy would never notice his presence, and was surprised to find that there was a lingering question in him, something he wanted to ask but was afraid to mention.

_There was another flash of light and Snape was once again hanging upside down in the air._

"_Who wants to see me take off Snivelly's pants?"_

_Students laughed or didn't, but none spoke a word against James Potter as he proceeded to spin Snape around in the air before dumping him down on the ground._

Potter didn't say a word as Snape-the-younger was left in a heap on the grass, while everyone went inside the castle. The memory faded to foggy gray, and Snape turned, arms crossed. "Well?" he said sharply. "You've seen it all, now."

"I tried to say…I tried to explain last time, last year…"

"Spit it out, boy," Snape ordered.

"They were bullies," Potter said, voice weak and cracking. "Nothing but stupid, pig-headed bullies," he went on. Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Much as Dudley is," he said cuttingly. Potter actually flinched, clearly disliking the comparison.

But he didn't argue it. Instead, he nodded slowly. "Like my uncle…"

"Indeed," Snape agreed harshly, wanting to push the boy rather than placate him. "My point is that you are not special in your situation…there are others that have suffered abuse," he explained, attempting to be patient.

Potter looked slightly ill, and Snape withdrew them from the pensieve. Potter staggered slightly, disoriented, and for a moment Snape wondered how someone so gifted on a broom could be so clumsy on the ground.

"I didn't think…don't think…I'm special," Potter almost whispered.

"Speak up," Snape ordered. Potter mustered half a glare, eyes red and weary.

"I _said _I don't think I'm special," Potter reiterated. "And…I know…I know that other people have it a lot worse than I do…that's why it doesn't matter. I'll be of age soon, and then I'll move out. The Dursleys won't kill me, so what's the big deal?"

"Your indifferent attitude towards your own life is the problem!" Snape said sharply. "The fact that you see no problem in attempting to solve the problem and moving on!"

"So I should be like you?" Potter said nastily, scowling. "Run off and join the death eaters, get some revenge? Kill people?"

The boy was breathing hard now, well and truly angry. Snape could feel the energy radiating from the teen, as it had in times past, and he wondered just what would happen if the boy were to be pushed past control…perhaps that was something Voldemort would find out.

If Potter didn't destroy himself first.

"And then what…come crawling back to Dumbledore, begging him to save you?" Potter laughed once. "Is that what this is about?" he asked suddenly. "You think I'm going to turn Dark?"

Snape hesitated only a moment, but it gave him away. He hadn't expected Potter to catch on to that aspect of these meetings so quickly.

Potter laughed bitterly again. "Voldemort murdered my parents, tried to murder me, killed dozens of other witches and wizards, and has made my life hell," he said. "If I ever go to him, it will be to kill him."

"And how do you plan to do that?" Snape demanded, snatching on to the opening. "You do not study, you do not pay attention, and you do not care."

"All I _do _care about any more is defeating Voldemort," Potter sighed, anger suddenly spent. "All I want to do is finish all of this."

"And then?" Snape pressed, knowing what the answer would be.

And, indeed, Potter just looked vaguely surprised. "And then…and then what?" he wondered.

"What do you plan to do after the Dark Lord is dead?"

"I—" Potter scowled, realizing he'd been led into a trap. "It doesn't matter."

"It does, and you well know it," Snape spat. "You've seen now what I became when I was singled out as you have been…you have also seen how your father and his friends truly were, Potter. Don't even think of standing there and lying to me! You would agree that what your father did was wrong, would you not? Or would you say they were right, that it didn't matter?"

Potter looked like he wanted to say something, then thought better of it.

"Tell me it doesn't matter that a child of thirteen was singled out and bullied for _seven years _by students too stupid and immature to see the harm they caused! If you can't do that, you can't stand there and say the fact that you grew up abused _doesn't _matter!"

Snape watched as, again, Potter half-opened his mouth, shut, it, and looked very thoughtful, surprisingly. "Spit it out!" he snapped.

Potter sighed. "I was just wondering, professor, when you showed me that memory in its entirety, where the other Slytherins were," he said calmly. "In all of your seven years at Hogwarts, where were they when you needed them?"

Snape blinked.

He hadn't thought of that.

He'd let the blame fall on James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew.

But where _had _the others of his house been?

0

He had to admit to himself, that Potter had won that round, though at the time he blustered his way out of the dead-end and sent the boy back to his dormitory.

And then went to his personal chambers to think, sipping Ogden's in front of the dying embers in his fireplace. He hadn't thought about that, he mused. No one in Slytherin had risen to his aid that day…if four of them had stepped forward, they would have been enough of a match for Potter's gang to allow him to escape, if not get in a little revenge.

But no one had helped him.

Odd, he thought. He hadn't expected help then. It hadn't occurred to him as a third year that he would have anyone defend him. He'd already instinctually learned that Slytherins would not support him out of any loyalty or care…they would only do so if the moment favored them, if it worked to their benefit.

He knew how that worked quite well. He'd joined Voldemort in order to have his revenge on the Potters of the world, and he'd gotten it. Only when he'd realized the enormous error he had committed in becoming a Death Eater did he deviate in the least from all that he had learn from seven years as a Slytherin at Hogwarts.

Was that how Potter felt, he wondered? Every year he'd been here, he'd faced some sort of dangerous, potentially-deadly challenge, and every year he'd beaten it. He'd come to expect it almost…he probably had no idea how other students, students that weren't singled out like he and his friends, functioned. It would be odd to him to take classes, exams, and prattle on about useless matters as did the great majority of the student body.

The fact was, that ever since Potter had joined the wizarding world, someone had been out to kill him. It wasn't hard for Snape to see the similarities between Potter's years and his own—instead of being a nobody, though, Potter was _the _somebody, and he couldn't escape it.

Much as Snape had not been able to escape the Marauders.

Hm.

He was starting to wish he'd never delved into this puzzle at all. He'd been much happier…rather…comfortable in his misery…before all this. As much as he hated to admit it, Potter had made him think about things best left behind. And he was bothered to see how skewed his version of events had been.

In seven years of hell, seven years spent wishing he were someone else, somewhere else, he'd never once wondered why none from his own house ever lent him a hand.

Except to turn him to Voldemort.

Hm, indeed.

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A/N: Sorry, lots of Snape inner dialogue stuff, but don't worry, stuff will happen soon! Stay tuned!


	8. Eight Miles

A/N: Took a while to find the direction for this segment, but I figured it out eventually. That's why there was a wait. Bear with me here, and thanks for reading!

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Chapter 8: Eight Miles

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It was funny how his priorities changed so abruptly in response to the situations of others.

Rather, _other_, since it only seemed that things changed this rapidly when a certain single entity was involved.

The most ironic part was that the boy didn't even realize the effects he had on those around him. And probably, Snape had to honestly assume, the boy would rather not be involved in any of these situations at all.

In this case, he didn't need to ask the boy if he'd rather not be involved. The answer was obvious…no one would currently want to be in his place.

Which was, unsurprisingly, in Hogwart's hospital wing.

When he'd discovered the history of abuse, when he'd followed up on it, he'd become interested in fixing the matter. In somehow solving it, proving that he could overcome his own prejudices and the boy's stubborn nature.

Certainly, time had been an issue in the back of his mind…that he couldn't let this fester, or, worse, peter out until it became useless to pursue. But he hadn't thought time was the most critical element.

And now, the past twenty-four hours had changed that all completely.

Because twenty-four hours ago, Potter had been abducted from off of Hogwarts grounds.

And twenty-three and a quarter hours ago, the boy had been recovered from inside the Forbidden Forest, at the toll of three Aurors, one of which was an Order member, and nine Death Eaters.

None of the Death Eaters had been anyone especially important, disappointingly, nor anyone particularly clever or useful.

But still they managed to make it eight miles into the Forbidden Forest.

Less than two miles from the apparation border. Two miles from getting back to their master.

According to what he'd last heard, Potter was recovered mostly from pure dumb luck… his captors had decided that they wanted a little time exacting revenge on the boy, and only because of that delay had missed escaping from Hogwart's protective wards.

They'd played with the teen instead, petty revenge on their minds. Cruciatus, mostly, but he didn't know details. All he knew was that Pomfrey had practically barricaded off the infirmary, unwilling to let anyone in while she worked.

And so Snape guarded the entrance hall, as he'd been ordered by Albus, and contemplated his new priorities.

Suddenly, he was seeing things from Potter's perspective—where the abuse did not matter, the neglect was unimportant, and the only thing that _did _matter was destroying the Dark Lord. Because Voldemort could do_ this _to the boy.

Not even Voldemort, really. If the Dark Lord had had Potter in his clutches, they would never have recovered him. The boy would have already been dead, a mess of blood and flesh and violence left behind for them to pick up.

From experience, Snape knew that the Dark Lord's lackeys weren't as…efficient…as their master tended to be when fully angered. The Death Eaters wanted a little 'fun,' and they were not as powerful as the monster they served.

Meaning they could be dealt with, but that they could also cause harm.

Just Death Eaters alone could be enough to kill the boy, provided they had sufficient numbers. How in Merlin's name did he stand a chance against the Dark Lord?

It was irritating, really, to know that Potter had been right…again…in suggesting that he was safe only most of the time…that no matter how great Hogwarts was, he was still vulnerable.

He recalled his last conversation with Potter, a day after the pensieve incident, as he sat against the stone wall, arms folded and wand held lightly in his right hand. Potter had been apologetic, nauseatingly so, and Snape had snapped at the teen to stop saying he was sorry and start admitting that he needed help.

Potter had snarled back at him that he didn't _need_ any help, and Snape had left it at that.

So it hadn't really been a conversation, Snape admitted to himself. More of a one-minute argument. But he hadn't felt the need to press the point _at that very moment_, though now he realized he probably should have.

Sighing, he shifted his position leaning against the main doors, wand held lightly in his fingers, and gazed up the quiet staircase, silently cursing the boy and Voldemort and happenstance all in one breath.

The students had been sent to their dormitories, prefects in charge of keeping everyone there while the school was searched and any breaches mended, and the professors were scattered about, scanning every inch of the supposedly impenetrable castle.

Apparently, Potter had been abducted from within the school. His friends had not been with him at the time…if they had, they probably would be dead…and no one had seen him for about half an hour. He was discovered missing when he didn't show up for Transfiguration, luckily, and from what garbled words he'd managed to tell his rescuers, he had been in the school, like he was supposed to be, when he'd been taken.

A frightening thought, really, Snape mused. Someone must have plotted long and hard to devise a way to get the teen out of the school, which had anti-just-about-everything wards layered on it ten times over.

But that didn't mean there weren't holes in the defenses, holes that were liquid and difficult to catch. Holes that Potter was, apparently, slipped through.

"He's asking for you."

Snape startled slightly, forcing himself to pretend calm disinterest as he turned to face Kingsley Shacklebolt, who looked worn and battered. "Indeed?" Snape asked, gazing up the staircase again.

The auror nodded slowly, sighing. "He's still a bit of a mess, but he's insistent that he has something to tell you."

"It is that urgent?"

"He promised Pomfrey he'd take a sleeping potion if he got to talk to you," Shacklebolt explained, shrugging. "So I suppose it's more urgent you get there before Pomfrey drags you in there, more than anything else."

"Hm," Snape mused, then strode towards the stairs. What could the boy possibly have to say to him?

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The auror hadn't lied when he'd said Potter was still a mess, though the boy was clearly on the mend. The blood staining the white of his left eye suggested blood vessels had ruptured under pressure…probably while he was under Cruciatus…and his face and exposed torso were a mass of bruises. His right arm was wrapped almost entirely in bandages, only the tips of his fingers protruding from the wraps.

What was most telling, though, was the row of potions by Potter's beside. Skele-gro, blood replenisher, a pain killer, three potions known to combat the effects of several nasty curses, Cruciatus included, and, at the end, a sleeping potion.

Potter noticed his scrutiny and let him do so in silence, eyes on the ceiling above his head.

"Done yet?" the boy finally asked, sounding vaguely out of it.

Snape stared. "What did they do to your arm?" he asked.

"Broke it when I said no," Potter said tiredly, and Snape could tell now that the boy was instants from passing out on his own. "Anything else?"

"You wished to speak with me?" Snape reminded mildly. Potter hesitated, looking confused, and Snape spoke again. "Pomfrey says you've been insisting on it."

Potter rubbed at his face with his left hand a moment, eyes squinted in thought, and then he nodded wearily.

"Yeah, yeah," he said slowly. "I think they know…about you…they said something about a drawing…no…drawing you…yeah, drawing you out…"

Snape stiffened. "Are you certain?"

Potter seemed to ponder this a moment. "Certain…I'm certain if you go back, they'll kill you…Malfoy was chatting with someone…you know, I spit right in his face…" Potter smiled weakly, eyes unfocused and expression dazed. "Talked about you…they didn't know I was going to get away...you…you're supposed to kill me."

Snape folded his arms on his chest. He had indeed been given strict orders by Voldemort to kill the boy if he ever landed himself in the infirmary again…just a little bit of the wrong potion, an 'accident.'

Of course, he hadn't been told that Potter was going to be purposely put in the infirmary. Clearly, he wasn't fully trusted.

"When were they talking about this?" he pressed.

Potter was silent several moments, eyes distant, as he tried to recall everything. At least, that was what Snape told himself the boy was doing.

He didn't want to ponder the possibility that Potter was silent because he was attempting to gather his scattered mind back together. "It was damp…there was blood making mud…" Potter said, voice light and emotionless. He sounded as if he were confused. "I think I was lying on my back, but maybe I was on my stomach…I was hungry, too, you know…"

"When?" Snape pressed again. Potter started, then shook his head slowly, focusing.

"I was on the ground…Avery was nearest…Goyle asked Malfoy why you weren't there…he broke my hand, you know, Avery did…and Malfoy said you had your own part to play in all this, but he was sure you'd be colorful…no…show some color…er…"

The boy stopped a moment, eyes squinted as he tried to recall the blur of the fifteen minutes he'd been held captive, unbandaged left hand unconsciously scratching at the bandages on his right.

The boy sighed heavily. "…and then Malfoy saw I was listening, and he kicked me in the face…he had black leather boots…it gets kind of blurry after that."

Potter looked away again, face shadowed with memory. His left hand dropped back to his side, and his every breath seemed to draw more energy out of him.

"Avery is among the dead," Snape felt compelled to point out.

"So is the other, with the brown eyes," Potter said, voice low. "I killed them."

Snape hadn't known that.

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"Fifteen minutes," Pomfrey said tersely. "Fifteen minutes' worth of that horrid spell." She shook her head and continued to fold linens by hand, movements abrupt and jerky.

"Not all at once, surely," Snape commented eyebrows raised. The woman shook her head.

"Great Merlin, no," she agreed. "The Longbottoms broke after about ten minutes of continual exposure…a minute is more than enough to fully incapacitate most."

"Will he recover?" Snape asked.

"Will he be the same?" the woman asked in return. "I doubt it. He was never your typical teen to begin with."

"Physically?" Snape pressed.

The nurse shrugged, using her wand to move the stack of sheets to a cupboard across the small storage room. "Maybe," she admitted finally, sitting down on a chair in one corner. "The hand…he says they broke it when he wouldn't give up his wand…broke the hand in ten places, at least…shattered his wrist…"

She shook her head. "It will heal, with time, but I'm worried about those fifteen minutes."

"Did he seem greatly impaired?" Snape asked, knowing Potter had been when they'd spoken. If that was an improvement, he was concerned.

Pomfrey actually glared at him. "What do _you _think?" she asked, much harsher than he'd ever heard her speak before. "He was in and out of consciousness at first, and as soon as he was coherent enough to speak, all he would insist upon was talking to you. I got the gist of what happened out of him in between random comments on his friends, house, and favorite foods."

She rubbed at her face tiredly. "Once the pain was alleviated, he seemed to calm down somewhat and regain his bearings, to the point of how he was when you spoke with him, but we won't know anything until morning. Muscle spasms and chronic pain are certainly the least of his worries."

"Hm," Snape said quietly, mulling this all over in his head. He knew Potter was resilient…he'd been placed under the Cruciatus more times than most fully grown wizards...but fifteen minutes worth in an evening was alarming. And it didn't seem likely that any reprieves Potter had gotten had been conducive to maintaining his sanity.

Of course, he'd never considered the teen sane anyway, so perhaps it wouldn't matter if Potter was a little more crazy. All he could do is wait and see.

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A/N: Well, here we go again. Took me a while to decide what to do in this chapter, but I just wanted it to be clear that this isn't just Harry-Snape bonding time. Things are going to happen. Plus, I like writing about stuff other than people talking and arguing with each other.

COMING SOON (as in, before xmas, hopefully?):

Chapter 9: Nine Lives


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